


Dancing in the Flicker Light

by SherlockScottHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bucket List, Character Death, Depressed Sherlock Holmes, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Lung Cancer, M/M, Major Illness, Mentions of Cancer, Original Character(s), Protective John, Sad Ending, Sherlock has cancer, Supportive John, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-31 16:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13978863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockScottHolmes/pseuds/SherlockScottHolmes
Summary: Despite all of the doctors efforts, and the best medical care that medicine can by; 26 year old Sherlock Holmes has never been anything but terminal: His fate sealed the day of his diagnosis; Stage IV Lung cancer. Though all seems lost, the detective is not fighting alone, John Watson plans to take care of his ailing friend until his very last breath.





	1. The suffocation of Hope

The Suffocation of Hope

 

John is numb. The words strike him like a powerful bolt of lightning, sending a powerful jolt through his heart. Words like,  _'terminal,' 'so sorry,' 'nothing we can do.'_ The doctor ears desperately attempt to block out what h e is being told by the medical professional that is sitting in front of him. Sherlock's doctor, Dr. Sloan. The man is quite old, at least en or fifteen years older than the soldier himself. He sits up straight, his hands clasped and resting in front of him on the dark wooden desk that is scattered with medical files and results, as well as a few frames containing family pictures and school photographs. The doctor's short black hair is peppered with grey pecs and streaks; Likely a combination of his age and the stress from his job. He elicits a deep and pained sigh as he gazes forward at John and the detective. Sherlock sits in the chair beside John's, his hands resting limply in his lap. The man is uncharacteristically silent as Dr. Sloan breaks the news; he almost seems peaceful but, outward appearances can be incredibly deceiving. In fact, inside, the man is shocked and terrified, his heart aching and pounding mercilessly against his chest. He's almost certain that it can be be heard echoing throughout the now silent doctor's office. The lights seem brighter now. 

 

Finally, John Watson steels himself away and musters the strength and courage to force out words that are directed towards Dr. Sloan. "How is this possible?" He asks, his voice hushed but, also drenched in disbelief. "He's been taking all of his medications, he's never missed an appointment. He should be getting better. He was in Remission." 

 

The doctor thinks back to he and Sherlock's journey to this very moment in time. It sure has been a bumpy ride but, you know what they say. "There is no such thing as a smooth mountain." Sadly, their mountain isn't just jagged, it's positively treacherous; something like Everest, beautiful in some spots but, ultimately death inducing. Ii has been months now since the detective was diagnosed with this life changing illness; Life changing isn't exactly the right way to put it, it's more like life ending. John has seen what cancer does to people, more times than he wishes to disclose. The soldier has watched it end peoples lives in the most painful ways imaginable. h has seen this disease ends lives just as many times as war has. 

 

The aforementioned doctor clears his throat to grasp the bloggers attention, aware that the man is lost in thought, as he ought to be. It's completely understandable and acceptable to go through a certain degree of shock when confronted with life altering information; especially when it concerns the man's best friend. "I know that you are going through a lot of conflicting thoughts and emotions currently, Dr. Watson but, I really must explain a few things." The older man clears his throat once more, unclasping his hands and picking up a few sheets of paper that are neatly stapled together in a single, uniform packet. The papers contain the silent detectives test results. "I understand that you are confused but, Remission does not necessarily mean that the cancer is gone; it's unfortunate but, it is the truth."

 

"Is there truly nothing that we can do to help him any further?" The blogger steals a short glance at Sherlock, who has yet to utter a single syllable; Not even a characteristic scoff or insult passes his pale lips. The tension building within the room is suffocating. 

 

"I am truly sorry, Dr. Watson. There is nothing that we can do for him now. We can simply make him comfortable now--" There is a pause. "We can also provide him with medication to ease his chronic pain." 

 

Dr. Sloan lets out a troubled sigh upon glancing at the still silent man that is sitting next to John. His grey eyes stare forward blankly, almost as if he is in a trance. As if by some miracle, the curly haired detective takes a breath and opens his mouth to speak. This causes John to turn and gaze upon the brilliant man with interest. 'How long to I have?" He asks quietly; There is a certain degree of knowledge to the question though. 

 

"Six months, Sherlock." Responds Sloan with a guilty sigh. "Two if you discontinue your treatment and medications." 

 

"And has it metastasized?" 

 

"I'm afraid so." Says the other man regretfully.

 

"Where then?" Sherlock's voice has now grown somewhat distant. 

 

Sloan looks down at the surface of his desk, picking up a few more pieces of stapled paper with nimble fingers. He flips a page an sighs, reading off the dreaded  information. "The cancer has spread from your Lungs to your Lymph nodes, and unfortunately... Your brain as well." 

 

"I see." ' _Even dying, the man has to be the know-it-all in some way.'_

 

It's a bitter feeling. When you are beyond hope. The knowledge of your impending death pulls at your heart, producing a profound ache that envelops your chest in an icy grip of despair. 

 

The young detective stands slowly, reaching forward to grasp the edge of the wooden desk for support. Beside his tall frame, a portable oxygen tank stands, a clear thin line of tubing trailing up to reach his face, where it rests beneath his nose. It has been his constant companion. The young man remembers the exact night that he received it; The night that he thought was his last on this Earth.  _Cold, icy hands seemed to have pushed at his chest, not from the outside but, from the inside. Sleep was ripped from him as the pain blossomed like a field of wildflowers in the Summertime. He had grown accustomed to pain, this however, was breath stealing. His chest heaved, and the simple task of breathing became a difficult chore. 'Is this how I am to die?' He had thought. 'Lying here, gasping and clawing for breath?' No._

 

John stands too, a look of concern filling his deep blue eyes, He knows better than to shrug off his friends sudden urge to leave; Sherlock is just as broken as he is. Understandably so. There is no one way for somebody to react when they are told that they have less than a year to live. It is only appropriate, John decides, that the detective should be permitted to be on his way now. The older medical man acknowledges this as well, he simply inclines his head in a 'farewell' nod. There is an impossible knot forming within the bloggers chest; one that will never be able to untangle. Ever. 

 

The following taxi ride to Baker Street is painfully silent, only the sound of the tyres n the road and the rain pattering against the care windows can be heard. The army doctor gazes listlessly at his friend for a few moments before once again meeting the outside World; gazing out of the window with clouded and watery eyes. ' _what will it be like journeying in a cab alone after so many years with the man sitting beside him?'_ It is as if Sherlock is already gone, the loneliness John is sure to feel is already filling his heart.  

 

 

 


	2. Daunting Thoughts

The flat is calm. Silent. Small specs of dust drifting through the air peacefully, many being caught in the cold blue light of the outside world. He grasps the arm of his chair, closing his eyes at the comforting feeling of worn leather. Then the organic wooden smell of the Stradivarius violin perched there. _How has he never noticed it before? The serenity of just being. It takes him dying to finally see._ There’s the sound of a throat being cleared in the background. He remembers, he’s not alone. 

 

John Watson... Army doctor, blogger— His best friend, stands a couple of stride away, his arms resting limply at his sides, and his face— so emotional and yearning for conversation. “Are we not going to talk about this?” He questions, his eyebrows raising but, his face remaining solemn. The man’s face seems so much more worn in this moment, the wrinkles more defined due to his worry. And his eyes. They normally sparkle but, now, those deep blue irises appear so dull and defeated. And it is all his fault. 

 

“Talk about what?” Sherlock throws his arms up. “What is there to talk about?” The young detective sweeps his arm throughout the air. It would have appeared so graceful, had he not been so distressed. “The weather? Our messy flat— The cancer?!” His voice raises at that word.  _That word._ ”There is nothing to talk about, John. Nothing that I’d wish to discuss.” 

 

“There is plenty to talk about! And yes, your cancer is  _absolutely_ one of them!” The doctor’s voice cracks.  _Oh, God. He hadn’t meant to make John upset._ “You can’t just ignore this, Sherlock. This is happening! Whether you want it to or not!” 

 

“Yes, I know that it’s happening! I’m the one that’s going to die! Remember!?” _He doesn’t mean to say this either but, he already has._ Sherlock’s eyes, blue orbs... They’re filled with such anger, and sadness, and hopelessness. “I know—“ He says again, this time his voice is more quiet, and frail. John doesn’t know what to say at his outburst. He can feel emotions building in his chest. The pain pressing at his heart. The next thing he knows, warm streams of salt water are streaming down his cheeks, leaving his eyes glossy and red. Overtaken by sudden shame, the doctor places a hand over his face as his sobs become audible. 

 

“I’m sorry...” He murmurs tearfully towards the detective just a few feet away from him. “God— I’m sorry.” _Why is this happening? Why? He loves him! He loves Sherlock..._

 

Soft footsteps tap on the wooden floor, approaching slowly. Two large warm hands wrap around the older man’s frame, running soothing circles on his back. “Shh...” Sherlock whispers. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to upset you. God, I’ve been acting so ridiculous...”

 

”No... You have every right to...” He sighs. “This Is Just— It’s so unfair. You can be a complete git sometimes but, you don’t deserve this. Nobody does.” Deep blue meets bright blue. “You’re my best friend.” He says, blinking away tears. “I know that it’s not exactly ideal...” Says the older man. “...But, dinner?” He smiles. He has to find some way to lighten the mood. 

 

“Dinner.” The other responds. 

 


End file.
